


Seeing Red

by Syrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3084506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is kidnapped by red Templars.  They torture him, trying to extract information on the Inquisition, but no amount of pain convinces him to talk.  Frustrated, they try other methods.</p><p>He is left broken, guilt-stricken, a shell of the man he was before.  Now, it's up to the Iron Bull to give them back the Dorian they once knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hidden Danger

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on the DA:I Kink Meme, I'm hoping that the requester approves!

He hadn’t intended to wander so far from the group, or for so long, but nature had called and while Dorian found ‘roughing it’ to be rather distasteful, he had little choice in the matter it seemed The Inquisitor had developed something of a fondness for the Tevinter mage, and as a result he found himself accompanying the petite elf on her excursions more often than not as the group’s resident mage. It wasn’t as though he could blame the lass, though; Vivienne and the Inquisitor rarely saw eye to eye, despite her rather impressive grasp of the healing magics, and while he wasn’t completely certain on her views of Solas, Dorian himself found the follically challenged elf to be a trifle on the dull side.

Unfortunately for the poor mage, Lavellan also seemed rather attached to the Iron Bull, though he wasn’t entirely sure as to whether that was down to the Qunari’s skill with a blade, his sparkling wit - or lack thereof - or, and Dorian thought this most likely, his rather expansive chest, tree trunk-like thighs and arms that could snap a man in two. To top it off, as if it wasn’t enough that the captain of the Chargers was a walking wet dream, Bull had made it more than a little obvious on numerous occasions, both in private and in front of the rest of the group without having the courtesy to so much as blush, that all Dorian needed to do was say the word and the Qunari would quite happily break him in the best possible way.

Which, of course, meant that the mage would never ask, no matter how much he wanted it. Tevinter pride and all that.

It had been these thoughts which had caused the mage to lose track of himself, to traipse too far from the makeshift camp, but the Emerald Groves were pleasant enough once you made sure the local wildlife wasn’t liable to attack, and as long as you didn’t linger near one of the few Fade rifts still dotted around the area. The sun was shining overhead, a convenient reminder that it was still just before midday, dappled light flickering over his tanned skin and the fabric of his jacket as he moved. The canopy of trees overhead ensured that the temperature remained pleasantly cool, though the slight chill still managed to draw the occasional shiver from Dorian.

A hollow beside an impressively large tree gave the mage all the cover he required, and leaning his staff carefully against the trunk a scant three feet away, he concluded his business in the most discreet manner possible. It wasn’t that the man was shy, far from it, but certain bodily functions needed to be kept to ones self, particularly when a lady was present. Well, three, if you counted Skinner and Dalish, though he wasn’t sure either of the two Chargers would wish to be referred to as such. Pondering on it for a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure why the ragtag group of mercenaries had accompanied them; it was unusual for the group to move as one, and even more unusual for them to do so in the presence of the Inquisitor’s usual group of soldiers.

Still, he thought as he straightened up and adjusted his clothing, it was none of his business what the group chose to do, or not do, as may be the case. He did, however, wish that Krem would stop staring at him so, it was rather unnerving as he couldn’t quite work out what the man was trying to discern. Not attraction, certainly, but it felt rather like he was being examined, as one might examine some interesting specimen.

It was his own fault for allowing himself to become too embroiled by his own thoughts, really. He hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching, near-silent in the soft whispers of the forest. Dorian barely had time to register a feeling of surprise when a blunt object, likely the hilt of a sword or dagger though he couldn’t be sure, struck him at the back of his head. The mage dropped like a stone, vision going black as he tumbled into unconsciousness.


	2. Blood for the Inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Torture scenes ahead, it's not pretty.

The first thing Dorian heard, upon waking, was the smallest and most pitiful of whimpers. It came again, slightly louder, and a third time, though it was only on the fourth such occurrence that the mage realised that the rather pathetic noises were coming from his very own throat. Swallowing, tightening his vocal chords, he forced the noises down and away, trying to limit whatever advantage his captors - he assumed there were plural - may have over him, and so that they would not get the satisfaction of hearing such things from him.

The Tevinter mage tried to move, to survey his surroundings, but found that forcing his body to respond was nigh on impossible. It took several moments for Dorian to realise this, his head swimming from the impact of whatever had been used to knock him out, as well as something he couldn’t place, vision hazy and body unresponsive. Something was impairing his ability to think, his mind barely his own. Trying again to shift his weight, he managed to raise himself to his knees, the clink of shackles accompanying the movement, the cold press of iron against his ankles finally making itself known.

“Your name.” A barked order, from scarcely feet away; how long had the other man been standing there? How long had he been watching? Dorian didn’t answer, couldn’t fathom what the correct answer might be, and that should have worried him were he in his right mind.

“Maker’s ass, how much magebane did you give him?” Another voice, further away, accompanied by the sound of chair legs scraping across stone. Footsteps, and a calloused hand grabbed Doran’s face, practically lifting him up by the jaw. He squinted as his pupils were suddenly assaulted by a candle held far too close, the flame flickering dangerously near to his undoubtedly mussed hair. 

“Enough to keep him subdued, ser.” The first voice replied, and as the mage’s head had started to clear somewhat, he just about caught the note of cruelty there. His tongue felt fat in his mouth, skull still feeling as though it might split in two, waves of nausea washing over him as he was jolted around by his non-too-gentle captor.

“And how am I supposed to get answers from a mage who can’t talk?” The second voice snapped, the candle tipping just enough that hot wax dripped from the pool which had gathered at the base of the holder, dragging a pained hiss from between clenched teeth as it ran slowly down the side of Dorian’s face. The first man barked out a laugh at the sound, joined worryingly by what sounded like three or four other voices, all snickering at the helpless mage.

“That’s one way to do it.” Drawled a third voice, female, and the first face he was able to make out in the gloom as she took a fistful of his hair and dragged him backwards, away from the crushing grip around his face. She was stocky with a face that might have been pretty if not for the cruel glint in her eyes, and wore the Templar insignia upon her breastplate. A heel found its way to his fingers, the full weight of the woman pressing down on the digits, her armour adding to the pressure. She twisted her foot, fingers bending and snapping under the assault, dragging another pained cry from the Tevinter mage.

“Make him squeal, lieutenant. I want to know everything he knows about the Inquisition, and what their next move is.” The one who had almost crushed his jaw fired an order at the woman, before moving back to his previous spot by the wall and taking a seat. The woman just nodded, baring her teeth at Dorian in what perhaps might have been a grin. She dropped him, the mage falling limply to the floor, sweat tricking down his cheek as he fought against the pain.

“It would be my pleasure, captain.” The woman responded, a blade glinting in her right hand as she bent over the captured mage. With every passing moment he could feel lucidity returning, though his magic remained frustratingly out of reach, as though held behind a velvet curtain. The knife pressed against his bare throat, flat side of the blade flush against his skin, as cold and merciless as the expression worn by his captor. Dorian swallowed, the only sign of any nervousness as his expression hardened, but otherwise remained motionless.

The blade turned, pressing in only slightly, a thin trickle of blood released by the knife; a warning, he knew, one that both he and the woman knew was for show only. She was telling him to answer their questions, else far worse pain would follow. He knew the pain would come either way, and that it was unlikely he would walk away alive.

“Now, precious, would you like to tell me your name?” The woman crooned, pursing her lips slightly at him in a manner that she must have presumed was endearing. She looked, thought Dorian distantly, rather like a freshly caught carp, though he did not voice this.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” He replied, voice with more of a husk than usual, holding a note of sleep that betrayed his still worryingly tentative grip on consciousness.

“You think you have a choice, sweet thing?” He felt the blade dig in deeper, just below his Adam’s apple, before retreating entirely, along with her presence at his side. Dorian tried to move, to test his current limitations, and managed to prop himself up on one elbow, keeping the hand with his likely broken fingers close to his body to avoid further pain besides the continual throb the digits sent up his arm. The grind of what might have been gears and a clang of metal sounded from behind him, though it would have taken more than he had to turn and look. Instead, he took the opportunity to survey his current situation; the room had stone walls and ceiling built in a similar fashion to the floor, with candle-lit sconces across three of the four walls. The door across from him was large enough to wheel a small cart through, and was made of heavy iron with no window or grate that he could see. Seven Templars, or men he assumed were Templars, were dotted around the room close to the walls, each one armed and not taking their eyes off him, while the man he presumed to be their commander sat with a glass in his hand on what in Ferelden might have passed for a throne, though in Tevinter would be little more than a dinner chair. He was too busy watching whatever his lieutenant was doing to pay any attention to the captive. The table next to the man, while small in size, held a selection of what appeared to be meats and cheeses, though from his angle on the floor Dorian could see little else on there.

“Bring him.” The woman had clearly finished whatever she was doing, barking orders at the other Templars - her subordinates, he assumed. Three stepped forward, one for each arm and the other to unfasten the chains at his ankles. He waited until one leg was free and kicked out, his boot landing with a rather satisfying crack against the side of the man’s skull and across his jaw - no helmet, not the wisest of choices - causing him to stumble back with a pained grunt. Dorian’s glee was short-lived, however, as the Templar holding his left arm twisted it around without a word, the muscles and bone in his shoulder screaming under the pressure and making the mage arch upwards in pain. As he did so, the man at his right arm released his wrist and drew back, before punching him square in the eye, making his head spin even worse than it was already.

He barely registered the other manacle being unlocked, perhaps by another of the gathered Templars as he could still just about see the one he had kicked spitting blood and teeth from his damaged mouth. Dragged backwards, it was only when his back pressed against something hard and solid that Dorian had the presence of mind to fight back once more, kicking out and attempting to pull his arms from the iron grip of the men who held him. In his current state, it was for nothing though, and he soon found his wrists and ankles shackled to whatever contraption the lieutenant had picked out.

“You will talk, one way or another.” The woman crooned, the table tipping back until he was suspended at a forty five degree angle, staring up at the juncture between ceiling and wall. Metal pressed against his throat as that, too, was restrained against the wooden table. Another knife appeared, this one jagged, as though used for sawing meat, and the woman began to cut effortlessly through the fabric and leather of Dorian’s clothing.

“Now, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you’re not entirely my type.” The mage quipped, squirming to try to move away from the flashing blade that didn’t seem to mind whether it was cutting through clothing or flesh, leaving him with more than a few shallow but rather painful cuts across his chest and down onto his legs as she worked. The Templar remained silent for the moment, straps falling away and buckles clattering down the table to the floor. In less time than he would have liked, Dorian found himself utterly exposed to the room, cold air hitting his tanned flesh and the remains of his outfit either pooled below him on the wooden surface, or kicked away by the woman as she stalked past his feet, eyes glowing almost red in the low light.

“What is your name?” She asked again, the third time in fact he had been asked such a question since he regained consciousness. They obviously knew who he was, so why keep asking?

“Dumat, can’t you tell?” The mage replied, a sneer evident in his voice as he stared down his captor. Her response was swift and merciless; the blade that had been used to remove his clothing flashed as the woman struck like a viper, slicing into the flesh of his arm and taking a piece away with it. Dorian cried out, struggling against his bonds as the woman flicked the shredded flesh away as though it was nothing.

“The Archdemon that caused the first blight and the Old God of silence? Not a bad answer, I suppose, but wrong nonetheless.” She paused for a moment, staring at him as though he was some small curiosity she had acquired. “Your name, spellbind, or I take a finger next.” The dagger tip was pressed against the wood beside his hand, fingers too badly twisted and broken to curl away from the blade.

“To the Void with you.” Dorian spat, expecting the pain that lanced up his arm as the woman cut through flesh and bone to remove not one but two of the digits on his left hand, the lumps of meat falling uselessly to the floor along with two of the rings he was still wearing. He couldn’t stop the scream though, the sound seeming louder in the confined space of his prison. Tears streamed down his face, his whole body sweating profusely as everything tensed against the crippling agony.

“You either tell me your name, or this continues.” The lieutenant purred, quite obviously getting a certain amount of pleasure from the pain she was causing him. Mind lost to the agony in his hand, Dorian managed to turn his head to spit at his torturer, crying out again and again as the knife made its way around his body, cutting here and slicing there, leaving trails of crimson in its wake. After each cut came the same question, and each time he refused to answer, until he was a panting, bleeding mess, none of the wounds life-threatening for the moment, but enough that the pain seemed duller, less intense.

“Fuck. You.” He finally managed to grind out through clenched teeth, quieter than he had hoped but with no less venom. Another bubble of laughter, and a vial was shoved into his mouth, bitter green liquid trickling down his throat and making him cough. A potion of sorts, he assumed, as the bleeding stemmed and some feeling returned to his lacerated body. They wanted him alive, it seemed, and lucid.

“No, sweetheart,” The woman, too close again, her voice almost sickly sweet but no less deadly. “Fuck you.” She stepped back, sneering down at him for a long moment before turning on her heel. “Gentlemen, he’s all yours. Break him.”


	3. One of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter on Bull's perspective.

The sound of a cork being loosed from a bottle was swiftly followed by a cheer from across the other side of the camp site. The Iron Bull sat and watched, beer in hand, as the Inquisitor got slowly more and more inebriated; the petite elf had never been able to hold her alcohol from what he had been told, and tonight was no exception. Bull, by contrast, needed half a cask of ale to get even mildly drunk, a cheap date he was not. Tonight, however, the beer in his hand, his first of the night, remained untouched, only there at all out of habit. 

The imposing Qunari frowned, his attention switching back to the main route in and out of the camp. It was long past dark, the moon high in the night sky lighting the trees quite successfully, having been full only two nights past. Stars littered the deep, inky black around it, not quite competing with the light of the moon but sparkling brightly nonetheless. Dorian particularly liked looking up at the stars; the mage was, apparently, some sort of expert on astrology, or something like that. Either that or he was a good little bullshitter, he was never entirely sure which.

The man still hadn’t returned. The frown lines on Bull’s forehead deepened; it wasn’t unlike Dorian to wander off every now and then. He liked his own space at times, for all of his bravado and needing to be centre of attention, so a few hours here or there weren’t anything unusual. He had never been gone for this long though without reason or company, and certainly not passed sundown.

“Something up, Chief?” Krem sat himself down by the Qunari, clinking his tankard with Bull’s own as way of greeting, noting that the bottle was still full. “You should be dancing ‘round the fire in your pants by now, half way to a hangover.”

“Don’t you go worrying about it.” The Qunari grunted, taking a swig of his beer and pulling a face; this wasn’t what he wanted, he didn’t like drinking when it felt like there was work to be done. “Might go see what that fool ‘vint has gotten himself into.” He stood to leave, tankard discarded in the dirt, forgotten.

“He’s not back?” Krem’s eyebrows shot up, and Bull was sure he heard a curse from the mercenary, who had stood along with him. “And you waited this long to say something?” Any response Bull might have had all but died on his lips as Krem moved swiftly amongst the drunk soldiers, speaking to Dalish, Stitches and Rocky in turn. Skinner had retired to bed, but was swiftly roused, though Grim was nowhere to be found. By the time Bull had shoved a few potions in his pouch and grabbed his sword, the Chargers were assembled and ready to go.

“I can go on my own, I don’t need babysitters.” The Qunari rolled his eyes as he set off towards the forest, his team in step behind him.

“And leave you to your own devices? Nah, you’d get eaten by giants or spiders in no time without us.” Krem replied, taking his place at Bull’s side. “Besides,” His voice had lowered, not to a whisper but so that the Qunari warrior knew he was speaking to him and him alone. “The ‘vint is one of us now, right? You’ve pretty much claimed him as yours, even if the two of you haven’t...yanno.” He shrugged. “Can’t have you moping if something’d happen to him.” His eyes were to the left, Bull’s to the right, with Dalish up ahead lighting their path with her ‘bow’, Skinner scouting even further ahead, the dark no hindrance for her. If Dorian had left any trail to follow, they would find it, and then Bull would tear him a new one for making him worry.


	4. Senseless Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR RAPE TRIGGER WARNING
> 
> Please, this chapter is anything but nice, if you might be triggered or offended by the contents of this chapter, just skip it. The H/C and adoribull will commence next chapter.
> 
> (I upset MYSELF writing this...)

”Break him.” It was at that point Dorian realised the trouble he was in. Questioning he was fine with. Torture wasn’t his favourite pastime, but he had lived through it before, albeit not to the same extent, but he could endure it. Death...well, he had to admit the thought didn’t sit overly well with him, but he had long since come to terms with the fact he was unlikely to escape alive, and he only hoped his faith in the Maker paid off in the end.

This, though? This wasn’t something he could comprehend, much less handle. The Tevinter mage tugged against his bonds, teeth clenched as he was advanced upon. His ordinarily carefully schooled expression was one of concern, if not fear, eyes flitting from one Templar to the next. Five of the seven men advanced on him, wicked grins mirrored on each of their faces. One grabbed his hair, holding his head in place while four others took a limb each, the two wearing them seemingly making a point to press the sharp metal edges of their gauntlets into the welts on his skin. Dorian heard the click of metal as he was unshackled and then lifted unceremoniously from the table, only to be moved around to the other side of the device and held in place as a sixth Templar used the crank on the side to lower it back down to its original angle.

The mage could barely fight back as he was hoisted forward against the device once more, though that didn’t mean he didn’t try, pulling and pushing against the hands that held him, more blood joining the stains he had already left on the floor - was all that blood really his? - as his incessant thrashing reopened almost-clotted wounds. It mattered for naught, though, as he was shoved face down on the table and held there, bonds fastened once again around his wrists. He could feel the cold press of metal against his ankles as his shackles were reapplied, legs spread mortifyingly wide and kept there by short chains attached to rings embedded in the stone floor. He was spread completely open and bare, the last remnants of his clothing just barely visible from where they had been knocked to the floor as he had been moved.

Several long moments passed, Dorian left alone for the time being, bound and exposed, dreading what would happen next as the sound of clanking metal and armour on stone echoed behind him. His breathing was sharp and fast, eyes wide as a rabbit cornered by wolves, darting around the room. Still the commander sat and watched, wine glass in hand, looking somewhat bored. The lieutenant stood at his side, looking every bit the loyal guard dog, her eyes never leaving her master. Taking several deep breaths and gulping down the panic that threatened to overcome him, Dorian allowed his eyes to close, resting his head on the cold wood of the table, trying to regain his thoughts and his wit.

“Really,” The mage finally huffed, sounding far more sure of himself than he felt. “If these are the sorts of parties you throw it’s no wonder they didn’t bother inviting you to the Comtesse’s soiree last month.” The last few words came out forced, as a still-gloved hand rested on his lower back, waiting for what seemed like an eternity. A nod from the commander, and he felt the inevitable press of something hard and thick against his entry. Dorian tried to relax, knowing that as much as this was going to hurt, he could at least ensure that the pain was kept to a minimum, he had been on the receiving end of enough rough sex to know that much.

The man surged forward, managing to force only half of his shaft inside Dorian’s tight passage in the first thrust, as the lack of either preparation or lubricant made it difficult for him to move. The mage couldn’t stop the pained noise that escaped through clenched teeth as he felt himself tear. It had been so long since he had last bedded a man, and longer still since he had been on the receiving end, his body just wasn’t used to it. He tensed, just as his assailant shoved himself in once more, the second thrust helped at least somewhat by the blood that he could feel seeping from him.

Buried to the hilt, the man behind Dorian was panting heavily, and the mage could feel eyes burning into the back of his neck. Then, he began to move, setting a brutal pace as he thrust over and over into the bound man, flesh slapping against flesh as Dorian writhed and tugged against his bonds to no avail. It hurt, but angled as he was his assailant managed to brush against his prostate with every other thrust. As talentless as the Templar was, and despite his aching injuries, it was starting to feel good.

The still-gloved hand reached around to grasp his cock, making Dorian jerk backwards to try to get away from it, only to impale himself further on the shaft inside of himself. To his horror, he found his body reacting to the touch, stiffening in the Templar’s grip and drawing a laugh from the man.

“You like that?” A voice from behind him asked, mocking him.

“Not particularly. Most of my dates think to treat me to dinner first.” The mage replied, to his credit keeping his tone level and reasonably jovial, though the pain was still evident in his voice. His comment only earned him a particularly hard tug, drawing a hiss from between clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I think you like that, let’s see if we can get you to make a mess.” The man sneered, slowing his pace slightly, angling his thrusts just so and pulling on Dorian’s leaking shaft in time with his movements. The rough texture of leather rubbing against his most sensitive area, as the man still hadn’t bothered to remove his gloves, was making him sore, but his body didn’t seem to care as he felt his balls tighten, orgasm rushing towards him like a tidal wave.

Then, the hand was gone, the man thrusting shallowly in and out, not enough for any kind of friction, anything that might grant him release. He was so close it hurt, panting and gasping, not entirely sure what was happening.

“Beg for it.” The Templar sneered, still keeping that maddeningly slow pace. “Beg, and maybe I’ll let you cum.” Dorian couldn’t stop himself from pushing back against his abuser, trying to get the man to speed up, and how he hated himself for it.

“N-not going to happen.” He gasped out, rewarded with a single, hard thrust before the painfully slow massage of his insides resumed.  
“I can continue like this all day.” The man mocked, hand teasing trails around Dorian’s cock but never quite touching. He allowed the slightest brush of fabric against reddened flesh, but nothing more, driving the mage closer to madness with each passing moment.

“Please!” Dorian finally gasped out, after several torturous minutes of gentle touching, after he could take it no longer.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you hard, like the little bitch that you are. Tell everyone here how you want my fat cock to fuck you until you cum.” The man was clearly getting off on this, the evidence twitching inside the mage, speed increasing ever so slightly as he grew more excited.

“Please, fuck me hard.” The mage sobbed, relieved when the Templar increased his pace, moaning softly as he was brought back to the brink of release.

“You’re a good little whore.” The insult made Dorian sick to his stomach, since he couldn’t deny it. He was moving in time to the thrusts, moaning in pleasure and pain as he was taken against his will, literally begging for it.

“V-venhedis” He managed to choke out at the man, before biting down on his bottom lip with enough force to draw blood, twitching uncontrollably as he came, hard, spatters of white covering the glove and the floor below, face flushed with shame. His own orgasm was, apparently, enough to pull his captor over the edge with him, as his internal muscles milked the release from the grunting pig of a man behind him. Both were left panting and spent, and as the Templar pulled out of him he heard the man laugh cruelly.

“Told you he liked it.” He seemed to be speaking to the room as a whole, speaking over Dorian, who was left face down with blood and unmentionables dripping down his inner thigh, unable to even close his legs to hide his shame. He was given little respite, as the next man was on him almost immediately, shoving his way in and fucking him hard. There was no talk, no kindness, nothing but brute force from a man who clearly wanted his own release and nothing more. He grunted and huffed, fingers clamped tight enough around Dorian’s hips to leave bruises. No gloves this time, the mage thought distantly, gritting his teeth against the pain. This time it ended quickly, another grunt and he was filled once more, the hot splash of semen drawing a sob from the tortured mage.

“We can end this now.” The woman crooned from her position at the opposite wall. He swore, then, honey-touched eyes glaring up at her through tears and mussed black hair which had long since lost any semblance of style. She simply shrugged and remained otherwise still and silent.

And so it continued; one after the other the Templars took him, sometimes hard and brutal, sometimes slow and almost loving. Each time they came within him, he could feel them, feel his locked-away magic reacting to the red lyrium in a way that was almost pleasurable. Sometimes he was brought to orgasm, other times not, but after the fifth time he came, he stopped fighting it, stopped fighting them.

“Please-” Dorian sobbed, finally, having long since lost count of how many times they had taken him, he himself having run dry, each forced orgasm dry and painful. “Please, no more.” He was cut, bruised and broken, even his bitter tears having run dry long before. He no longer felt the pain from his torn passage, only a numbness that seemed to spread through him.

“Tell me what I need to know, and we can stop.” The woman seemed to be getting annoyed, frustrated at his lack of response. She was clearly not used to this level of resistance.

“I-I can’t.” He replied, clenching his eyes tightly shut. Please, let them just kill him now, he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

“Fine, your choice.” The Commander stood then, knife in hand, and stepped over to the captive mage. “Hold him down.” Came the next command, and immediately several pairs of hands were on him, pressing him further into the wood so he could not move. Moments later, Dorian realised why, as the tip of the blade dragged through his flesh, over and over again, from the base of his spine up to the nape of his neck in seemingly random slashes, splitting his skin open where the lieutenant had not been able to reach. He cried out and tried to pull away, but between the table and Templar hands he had nowhere to run.

Part way through the deliberate and measured slashes up his back, he was certain that he heard the sound of something large and heavy crashing into something small and easily broken, punctuated by a pause in the movement of the knife. The commander resumed his work quickly enough, though, and Dorian almost immediately forgot that he had heard anything at all.

After what seemed like an age, the Templar commander pulled back to admire his handiwork, before ordering his men to redress and accompany him from the room, a few choice insults and a promise of more later left with the mage. Dorian was left alone, bleeding and in more pain than he had ever known. He was losing a lot of blood, and his head was starting to spin. Moments later, as if by magic, the wall seemed to cave in on itself, and the mage knew that this was probably the end for him.


	5. Doors Make the Best Firewood

Trees, there were entirely too many trees. Bull was sick of low-hanging branches catching against his horns, of gnarled roots tripping him as they moved entirely too quickly in the dark. No one else seemed to be having the same trouble, he grumbled to himself, but then...no one else was a hulking mass of Qunari warrior. He huffed and complained and never once lost his concentration or stopped searching for any sign of his missing ‘vint.

The missing ‘vint, he corrected himself. Because as much as he would wade into a pit of demons for Dorian if he so much as asked, there was no guarantee that the mage felt the same way at all.

A low call from Dalish, and the Chargers were at her side in an instant. She was stooped over a long, thin mass on the ground, reaching out, hand closing around something that could not be seen fully in the darkness. As she straightened, the tip of the thing lit, casting a greenish glow down the length of the staff, disrupted only by the curve of three intricate dragon heads.

“It’s his?” Krem asked as Bull took the staff from Dalish, the elf handing it over without question.

“No doubt about it. No one else would carry a staff like that.” Dalish nodded, meeting Krem’s eyes and sharing the worry there. They hadn’t moved too far from camp, only maybe a half hour or so, not far enough that Dorian could have gotten himself lost. There was no sign of the mage, and he wouldn’t have left his staff behind for love nor gold, not when the forest was so thoroughly infested with spiders, wolves and the occasional ogre, not to mention the increased numbers of red Templars wandering around.

“Has he left a trail?” The Iron Bull growled, momentarily gripping the staff harder than he should have, the wood creaking and groaning under the pressure, before Stitches plucked it from his fingers, managing with some difficultly to mount it on his back - how mages carried such cumbersome things was entirely beyond him. Still, when they found Dorian, he would likely want the staff back and wouldn’t appreciate it if Bull destroyed it in the mean time.

Dalish barely acknowledged Bull’s question, already piecing together what had transpired, the not-mage having conjured a floating ball of veilfire to light the area in an eerie green glow. For once, she didn’t even try to explain away her use of magic, though the rest of the Chargers made no comment. Now was not the time.

There; dried, ammonia? Ah, he had stopped to - then, an indent to the left, a body that had fallen hard, bushes trodden down around it, more than one set of footprints. Four, armoured boots, dragging away and snapped branches, to the East.

“This way.” She was tracking, it was what she was good at, what she had been raised for. The hunt, now that she couldn’t do, but for tracking there wasn’t a Dalish out there who could best her. Branches snapped and feet stomped behind her, as she made her way forward, keeping the veilfire burning just a short way ahead; more exhausting than simply lighting a torch with it, but more useful, better for following the signs.

They didn’t have to walk far; before long, the troupe arrived at what had once been an encampment, Templar if the imprints of the wagons and the abandoned sword next to the fire pit were anything to go by.

“What the blazes have you gotten yourself into now, ‘vint?” Bull growled, more to himself than to anyone else present. They scoured the camp, or what was left of it, looking for anything that might help. Fortunately, they found it; in the remains of scrap used to light the fire, or to keep it burning, a map, crudely drawn, and with a note that death would follow should the recipient get lost again. They were lucky, really; it must have been thrown on the fire in haste, and had slipped to the side of the fire bit, a little charred in places but otherwise entirely legible. Either that or someone had wanted them to find it. He doubted it was the latter.

The Chargers followed the wagon tracks for as long as they were visible, and then the map once those vanished. It wasn’t easy, and they lost their way more than once, but by the time the first rays of sunlight peered over the horizon, they had found it. A castle, or what was once a castle and now lay in ruin, could be seen only a short distance away. 

Typically, and they had expected it really, the place was swarming with red Templars. They would need to fight their way in, which Bull was more than a little pleased at as he charged in swinging his great mallet as he went; something he had stolen off some bandits they had killed on the way there, not his usual weapon, and he was itching to try it out.

Krem charged in directly behind the Bull, the rest of the Chargers scattering to take their places, cutting through the opposing force as a knife through butter. Dalish and Skinner took out as many Templars from a distance as they could, until a squadron rounded on them, forcing Dalish to retreat to higher ground while Skinner pulled out her knives and began hacking gleefully at their attackers. A small explosion sounded from the right hand side of the castle structure, giving them an entrance thanks to Rocky, but also drawing a few more Templars from within the structure.

They were making progress, albeit slow, and that worried Krem; they were going to run out of steam eventually, getting wounded now meant a death sentence, either for them or for Dorian. Rocky had fought his way back around to Bull’s side with Skinner bringing up the rear, and the pile of bodies was mounting up. Soon, the only Templars left alive were those inside the castle, who were frantically trying to patch up the gaping hole in their new front door. Their efforts were for naught, though, as the Chargers regrouped and made their way - forcefully - past the remaining guards and into their stronghold.

Once inside the castle, it became apparent very quickly that it was all but deserted, at least on the upper floors. It was by a stroke of luck that Stitches happened to spot one unlucky Templar recruit, barely more than a boy, slip out of what appeared to be a hidden door behind a broken bookshelf. The boy was allowed to flee, and the chargers made their way down into the belly of the castle, encountering no resistance as they went. A corridor, cold and lined with stone. Every now an then, a door broke the continuous lines of stone, though each room was empty as Bull made a point of destroying each and every one of the wooden doors; since when did Templars need privacy anyway? Or beds. Maybe he should ask Dorian to burn all the beds on the way out once they found him, Sera would love to hear about that when they got home, and the mage would certainly enjoy telling the tale.

“The construction of this place isn’t half bad.” Rocky commented half way through their entirely unbiased rendering of all doors in the structure into firewood. “It’s not got anything on Dwarven architecture, mind.” He added, as Bull effortlessly smashed a hole in the wall, just because he could.

“Less yapping more smashing!” Bull grunted, as they continued their progress, drawing a dry laugh from Dalish before she set some drapes on fire in one of the rooms. They were fast running out of doors, though, and there was still no sign of the missing mage. 

“Oh, great.” Bull sighed; they had finally reached the end of the corridor, the last door giving way to stairs down to an even lower portion of the castle. They descended rapidly, hearing the clank of armour and the slam of a door, speeding their steps. Reaching the bottom, Bull saw the collective backs of a small troupe of men disappearing around the corner, clearly in no rush to face him and his boys.

“Stitches, Krem, with me. Dalish, Skinner and Rocky, find out where they’re going, kill ‘em if you need to, let me know if you find anything.” A nod, and the three raced off after the Templars, keeping pace with the fleeing men. Bull was left in what must have been the castle dungeon at one time, flanked by his second in command and his healer, hoping he wouldn’t need either. There was only one door in view; metal, covered in rivets and thick enough to ward off a battalion of hurlocks. The stone itself would be easier to break through, and since the door was locked, that is exactly what Bull did.

It took a moment for the dust to settle, and when he was finally able to see, Bull stopped being able to breathe. They had found Dorian. They were too late.


	6. Leading the Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested, 'the bald one' is the mouthy Templar from before.

Time seemed to slow around him, ears ringing and sound seeming muffled, as though under water. Bull stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, and he might have fallen if he hadn’t focused so completely on each step, taking him closer to the broken body only feet away from him. He could vaguely hear Krem swearing over and over behind him, before shouting something and then the sound was gone. There was so much blood, everywhere, thick and viscous, making his boots slide against the stone floor. It seemed to take an age to reach Dorian’s side, the mage bound and bloodied, reeking of the scent of other humans in a way Bull really didn’t want to dwell on. 

Dorian was covered in blood as well, his own blood, pooling in shapes on his back, and in the occasional area where skin could be seen, it seemed to be more black and purple than the usual handsome tan. Reaching out, his massive hands trembling, he brushed one finger over the mage’s cheek, for the first time in his life feeling completely helpless.

“-Bull? Are you listening, you great idiot?” Stitches was shouting at him, why? “He’s alive, just barely, we need to get him off this thing so I can take a look.” The Qunari looked up, confused and bewildered, the man had moved around the other side of whatever the contraption was Dorian had been tied to, and was trying to work out how to open the shackles holding his wrists to the table surface.

“I-yes, of course.” For Bull, ripping the metal clasps from the fragile wood was nothing, and the shackles were tossed to the floor with a clang. They were able to lift him, then, the limp body of the Tevinter mage pressed back against Bull’s chest, before being so very gently lowered into his lap as Stitches took a look at the shackles at Dorian’s feet. He tried not to look at the cuts, the welts, at the stains down his legs or the bruises, but he found he could not look away either.

“We’ll need a key for these, or a lockpick.” Stitches noted, the heavy iron rings not something one could easily break. “I’ll deal with his injuries as best I can, but we need mages. We need to get him back to Skyhold as quickly as possible.” He set to work, bandaging the worst of the injuries and padding those which threatened to bleed out with wadding lined with a poultice of elfroot and dawn lotus, paying particular attention to the abused left hand. He was an excellent healer, one who knew how to work in the field, but he was no mage, had nothing to clean Dorian with, and what healing herbs he had on him would prove near-useless with the mage in such poor condition. Health elixirs helped to keep the bleeding under control, but he needed better facilities, better supplies, and those wounds would get infected fast if left untreated in such filthy conditions.

“Where’s Krem?” Bull asked, voice low and quieter than usual.

“Here, Chief.” Came the quiet response, as his second in command dropped to one knee beside the hulking great Qunari who at that moment looked more like a lost little boy than the leader of the Chargers. “Told Skinner to keep the bastards alive, for now. They’re in one of the cells at the other end of the hall, guessed you’d want the pleasure yourself.”

“Thanks, Krem.” Bull grunted, before closing his eyes for a long moment, taking a deep breath, and then reluctantly handing Dorian over to Stitches, who got to work binding the mage’s chest and back as he couldn’t do much more with them at present. “See if you can get his feet loose, and find something to cover him with. I’m going to have a word with those Templars.” He spat the last word, taking one last, lingering glance at his wounded friend. The Iron Bull stood, then, expression hard and with a murderous glint in his eye the likes of which Krem had previously only ever seen one once. He unsheathed his mallet before he had even stepped back out through the hole in the wall, and the pair left in the room with their unconscious charge could hear the sound of it smashing into rock and wood, breaking everything it could.

“He’s going to be murder to live with after this.” Krem sighed, getting to work on trying to free Dorian’s legs, brow furrowed with a level of worry usually only reserved for one of the Chargers.

Bull was beyond angry. Walls crumbled, tables shattered, and he didn’t miss the worried look Dalish shot at Rocky, who quickly raced back to the entrance at a nod from the chief. Skinner was peering through a small grate in a metal door identical to the one Dorian had been kept behind, spitting some Elven insult or another at the ‘shems’ contained within.

“Nine of them. Dirty mouth on the bald one.” Skinner commented to Bull as she unlocked the door, opening it for him before he decided to try to break it in. “Might want to remove it.” She added as she closed it once more, the pair of them on the other side. The key clicked in the lock as Dalish locked them in.

Typically, the Templars rushed them, or most of them at least. Seven men against one Qunari and one bloodthirsty elf, and naturally they did not stand a chance. Bull started with ‘the bald one’, as Skinner had suggested, completely removing his lower jaw with one clean swing of the mallet. It was amazing, really, the level of precision he was able to achieve with such a large and unwieldy weapon, and it never ceased to impress Skinner, who was busy skewering her second Templar, the first still gurgling away on the floor, his throat slit. With three down, the fourth had his stomach forcibly removed through his spine courtesy of the mallet, the fifth choked to death on his own blood as his lungs were punctured by Skinner’s blades, and the sixth and seventh both had their skulls crushed in with one impressively wide arc of the mallet.

“You’re in charge, I take it.” Bull eyed up the two remaining Templars; one was clearly in some position of authority, his armour told them that much, while the woman who stood before him with her sword drawn appeared to be of little more importance than the lackeys he had just taken out.

“And you’re with the Inquisition.” The man replied. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it, standing strong and tall. “I can offer you a great many things if you let us live. Power, influence, riches beyond your wildest dreams. All you have to do, is tell me what I need to know, and let us walk out of here alive, how does that sound?”

“Breaking you into pieces with my bare hands sounds better.” Bull growled at the man, ready to strike the pair down if they so much as moved. “You wanna tell me what you did to my ‘vint, and why?” The last word was growled out, his anger only seeming to grow. He could feel Skinner practically twitching at his side, waiting for the word, the pained cries of the miraculously still alive bald Templar clearly getting on her nerves.

“How positively bestial.” The female Templar sneered, staring down the Iron Bull as though he was little more than a feral dog. “The little whore was here to serve one purpose; information, and he couldn’t even do that right. Still, he proved an enjoyable distraction for my men. He even begged for-”

“Be silent, lieutena-” The commander’s order was cut off before he could finish it, as Bull swatted the toothpick of a sword from the woman’s hand, grabbed her head and snapped her neck, dropping her limp body to the floor like a rag doll. The man swallowed, finally showing that he was still human, as he found himself face to face with the Iron Bull, expression one of pure rage. Any control he had over his bowels left him, as they loosed themselves within his armour.

“You are nothing.” Bull sneered, it taking all of his willpower not to simply crush the man. “You are an insect, less than an insect. You are one who does not even deserve death.” Reaching out, he easily snapped both of the commander’s arms, the armour clearly more for show than for any kind of real battle as it bent under his grip. Then, with the man screaming in pain, he dropped him and walked out, beckoning Skinner to follow.

“Ser?” Dalish questioned as she opened the door for them, a quizzical look on her face.

“Lock him in, then make sure no one can get to him. He’s going to die very slowly, and in a lot of pain.” Bull growled, face still like thunder, stalking back to where Krem and the others were waiting, the agonising cries of the wounded Templar commander and his subordinate echoing down the corridor. 

Rocky had managed to free the manacles, thankfully, and a set of too-large Templar armour padding, along with a blanket which had seen better days, served to not only cover Dorian’s modesty, but also to keep his makeshift bandages in place and to keep the worst of the early morning chill from causing the mage any further discomfort. Bull took the weak shell of a man from Stitches, lifting him gently and carefully, as one might a newborn child, cradling him against his chest as they made their way out into the bright sunlight.


	7. Skyhold

In the medical wing, Bull was finally forced to let go of his wounded charge, the mage taken to a side room by a small group of increasingly concerned healers, the door closing behind them as they got to work, cutting the by now bloodstained clothing and makeshift bandages from Dorian’s prone body as gently as they could, peeling it from him, wounds opening anew as they worked as quickly and efficiently as they could. Two of the castle mages healed where they could as they went along, stemming the worst of the bleeding as one of the medics went about cleaning the open gashes on his chest, arms and stomach. There was talk of others being pulled in to help, of the task ahead, and mention of a report to document the wounds and treatment for each one. They worked quickly and tirelessly, supplied with a constant stream of lyrium potions to keep the mages going and elfroot for poultices.

Hours passed, Bull waited. He paced, he bellowed, and he got kicked out of the waiting area for making too much noise and distressing the other patients by an angry-looking woman who was trying to treat a broken leg. With nowhere else to go, he stalked back to the tavern and found himself alone in the crowd, the rest of the Chargers elsewhere still. Even in his usual chair he couldn’t get comfortable, slouching and fidgeting until it proved to be too much, the Qunari storming out of the establishment after only one drink, insulting two of the regulars and breaking a table on his way out. He wanted to get rip-roaringly drunk after today, needed to, but if Dorian needed him and he was too inebriated to help? No, that didn’t bear thinking about.

“What?” He snapped at one of Cullen’s men as he passed, the soldier scurrying off as he realised he had been caught looking. Bull stomped around the yard for a bit, avoided by anyone with sense as he tried to find something, anything, to occupy his mind. He hadn’t noticed that he had company as he tore the head off his fifth training dummy, the straw-and-wood man crumpling into dust under his fist.

“Enough!” Cassandra glared up at the Qunari, earning a look from him that would break the hardest of men, and not so much as flinching, unperturbed by his violent mood. “You are distressing the troops, you’ve single handedly maimed or destroyed all bar two of our training dummies, and the bartender is seriously considering charging you for the mess you caused. You’ve already been removed from the medical wing, do not make me impose a ban on your using the training yard as well.” Bull turned to face her head-on, both of their chests puffed out and neither one backing off as the two warriors stared each other down. Cassandra had her left hand on the hilt of her sword, her right on her hip, while Bull kept both of his at his sides, fists clenched, chest heaving and nostrils flared, looking every bit his namesake.

“Fine.” Bull responded after several long moments, shoulders slumping slightly and glancing away from the woman, his one good eye searching for something though he couldn’t say what. His anger and frustration seemed to dissipate, leaving him feeling as lost as he had on the journey back, staring down at the prone body of his friend.

“Look, I don’t know exactly what happened, Maker knows I would have been there if I could, but right now I need to speak with Bull, not this-” She moved the hand that had been resting on her hip to gesture at the Qunari. “Shell of a man. You’re better than this.”

“You didn’t see, Cass. Didn’t see what they did to him, what he went through.” His voice wavered, and for a moment Cassandra truly believed he might cry. But no, a great intake of air and Bull was back once more, as strong and solid as ever.

“I know, which is why you need to get yourself together.” Taking hold of his elbow, she gently steered him back towards the keep, knowing full well that he would not be moved if he didn’t want to, but yet he allowed himself to be led without protest. “The advisers have asked to speak with you. We need to know what happened out there. If there’s any chance the Inquisition might have been compromised-”

“He didn’t talk, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Bull snapped, cutting her off.

“The kinds of things he was put through, though, I’m not sure anyone here could live through that and not say something.” They had managed to make their way into Josephine’s office, who stood as they entered, her usual jovial mood replaced by something far more sombre.

“I don’t give a shit what ‘anyone’ would have done, he didn’t.” Bull found himself ushered into the war room, Cullen and Leliana already present, their whispered conversation cut short as the three entered, the massive, hulking Qunari taking up most of one side of the table, Cassandra at his side, while the advisers took their place opposite, the mood in the room grim.

“This is not going to be easy for you, I know, but we need to know everything.” Leliana kept her tone low and level, knowing how easy it would be for Bull to fly into a rage, particularly considering the reports she had received from her spies dotted around Skyhold. “Not just for security, but for Dorian as well. We need to know if he requires any additional treatment.”

“Can’t we at least wait until-” Bull paused, swallowing down the words caught in his throat. “Until he’s awake.” He finally finished, the ball of fear in the pit of his stomach triggered by the thought that Dorian might not wake, that he could well die from his injuries, seeming to grow by the second until it left him wanting to break something.

“No, it’s best we do this now to prevent any further damage.” Leliana replied, her double meaning clear, before smiling gently at the Qunari. “And besides, when he awakens, I doubt we will be able to keep your attention long enough to conduct a meeting such as this.” 

It was enough to convince the Bull, who reiterated the story of how Dorian had remained away from camp far later than was usual, and how the Chargers had tracked him down to the ruined castle, where they had met with red Templar resistance. He took great pleasure in describing, in detail, how they had fought through an entire battalion of troops, and come out unscathed. The assembled parties knew he was exaggerating, but let it slide, as the tale of their great victory seemed to at the very least improve his mood.

“You haven’t told us why the Inquisitor wasn’t with you, and why you didn’t bother to let her know where you were going.” Cullen finally asked, once there was a lull in the story. Bull wasn’t certain whether his tone was accusatory or not, and while he suspected that it had been meant as a dig at him the man kept his expression entirely too neutral to tell, so the Qunari just shrugged at the commander.

“She was drinking with the men, I didn’t think it was going to be anything big, the ‘vint’s gotten himself lost before plenty of times. Didn’t want to spoil her fun, and by the time we realised something was up it was too late to go back.” He replied, far more calmly than Cullen had anticipated, and the slight raise in the man’s eyebrows betrayed his surprise.

“That is more than fair.” Josephine piped up, before Cullen had a chance to say anything further, shooting him a look as she did so. “We would all have done the same thing, I believe, given the circumstances.”

“Right.” Bull drew the word out slightly, for lack of anything else to say to the woman. “Thanks.” It felt a little bit like the two were having something of an argument without words, and Josephine’s deliberate reassurance did not go unnoticed by Bull, who was quite aware of what they were doing.

“Please continue, Bull.” Leliana finally prompted, her hand reaching out a short way on the wood of the war table, drawing the eyes of all gathered and regaining their attention with the slight movement. “You were saying about the secret door down to the lower levels?”

It was at this point that the Qunari began to struggle; he spoke with ease about tracking, fighting, and the destruction of garish drapes, but how could he possibly start to describe the way they had found Dorian, the level of abuse that the mage had endured? His hands flapped uselessly at the air in front of him, fingers clenching and unclenching. It was with some gentle prodding from Josephine that he was allowed to move on, past the horror in that room, to finish his version of events, not bothering to embellish his encounter with the red Templar commander beyond the bare facts.

“And you left him there? To starve?” Cullen asked, grim realisation settling over the room, as the story concluded and the four humans present were finally fully aware of what had transpired. Bull nodded in confirmation, wondering whether he perhaps should have ensured the castle collapsed on the man’s head before they had left. “Good.” The commander continued, lips a thin line as he leaned heavily against the table.

“Are you alright, Commander?” He felt, rather than saw, Josephine’s hand on his arm, all eyes in the room on the increasingly pale ex-Templar.

“Yes, fine. I just need some air.” Cullen all but stumbled out of the room, making his way out of the keep and into the cool night air. Luckily, only a few lonely stragglers remained awake, and he was left to his own devices as he found himself a quiet corner just in time to feel his stomach clench and heave.

“Commander.” He stood off to one side, making his presence known while giving the man space. Bull had followed Cullen out after the meeting had disbanded, Leliana and Josephine conversing again in hushed whispers and Cassandra collapsing into a chair in front of the fire in Josephine’s office, citing her need to speak with the ambassador but clearly as shaken up as the rest of them. It was almost tempting to join her, the heat of the room pleasant, but he knew he would not have been able to settle there.

“Through all that, he...” Cullen paused, pushing back from the wall he had braced himself again, wiping his mouth on a cloth he had pulled from somewhere, tucked away in his armour. “He said nothing, not one word, even after they-”

“Don’t.” The Qunari cut him off with a raise of his hand, staring out into the courtyard, the two men standing in silence for an age as Cullen took deep steadying breaths until the colour slowly started returning to his face.

“I’m going to send some of our men to board the place up, to make sure no one can get into their dungeon without our say so.”

“Or out.” Bull added, more of a growl than anything else.

“Or out.” The Commander agreed with a small nod.

“Serah Bull!” A shout from across the expanse of courtyard, and the pair turned to regard the approaching elf half-jogging towards them. Bull was certain that he recognised the boy from his short time waiting in the medical wing earlier, and for a moment his heart dropped in his chest. “Serah Bull, Madame de Fer has asked that you come with me, and quickly.”

“Has something happened?” Cullen called out to the boy, but he had already turned on his heel, trying to keep pace with the long legs of the Qunari who had started back towards the keep without pause. He thought to follow, but decided against it; whatever Vivienne’s messenger had been sent for, Bull wasn’t going to want him hovering around.

“Iron Bull, that was a rather more prompt an arrival than I had anticipated.” Vivienne turned to meet Bull as he entered, a small and slightly pitying smile on her face, impeccably dressed as always though he was certain he caught sight of a smear of blood on one of her sleeves. He was breathing heavily, and barely acknowledged the elf as the boy bowed and made his exit, leaving the enchanter and the Qunari alone for the moment.

“What’s going on, ma’am? Where’s Dorian?” He swallowed, nervously, unable to stand still; the room that had previously been barred to him stood wide open, the bed empty, still coated in far more of the mage’s blood than he had ever wanted to see. Instantly, the Qunari’s thoughts went in the worst possible direction. Of course Dorian was gone, with wounds like that, he could never have survived. They had been too late, much too late, and he had lost something truly precious as a result.

“Calm down, my dear.” The enchanter huffed at him amicably, turning and walking briskly away, expecting Bull to follow. “He is awake.”


	8. Keeping Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, I am still entirely unhappy with this, but if I don't post it now it's not going to get posted! I've actually split this into two chapters, because the second half was proving far more difficult than the first, and this is fairly self-contained as it is. Still, I hope you enjoy :)

He felt light-headed, staring up at a ceiling he didn’t recognise and in a bed he knew was not his own. Distantly, he could hear voices speaking words he couldn’t quite fathom out, in time to a pulsing in his mind that might once have been a headache. The room was dim, but not dark, the edges of his vision flickering like firelight. He had tried to move, once, and found that his body wasn’t reacting the way he supposed it should, so simply gave up and lay still, staring up at the beams above his head, mentally tracing the whorls in the wood as though they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen.

Dorian was vaguely aware that this lack of movement, and his current light-headed state along with the strange surroundings, should perhaps alarm him. Strangely enough, though, he found himself to be completely at ease. Nothing hurt, although he knew it should, even if he couldn’t quite remember why. There was a strange smell about the room, like a medicinal odour covered by a floral scent that reminded him of his childhood and something bitter, like burnt rashvine. At the very top of his vision, he could see something soft and white, like clouds but entirely too close, though try as he might he could not bring it into focus, what little movement he was capable of simply moving the white fluff up and down with the tiny head motions.

“Dorian?” A voice, he knew that voice, when had someone arrived? A large figure obscured part of his vision, the mage squinting up as he became aware of someone moving his arm.

“He can hear you, Bull darling. Just don’t be too surprised if he doesn’t answer quite yet.” The enchantress was moving around somewhere behind him, Bull’s focus almost entirely on the still form of his friend. He had taken hold of Dorian’s less damaged hand, so very gently, and held it as gently one might a butterfly.

The mage was utterly unresponsive, flat on his back on what Bull hoped was a comfortable bed, certainly better than the cots they reserved for patients in the medical wing. He wasn’t certain who’s bedroom they were in, if it belonged to anyone at all, but it was sparse and small in side, the only décor being a set of drapes at the window to keep out the light and two small tables which were presently lined with bottles and vials of all shapes, sizes and colours. A basket of fresh bandages had been placed at the foot of the bed, while a pitcher of drinking water had been prepared and left at the head. Dorian himself lay bound as one might a fallen king before mummification, barely a scrap of olive skin visible to either onlooker, aside from his face and part of the hand that was hidden between Bull’s own massive palms. The bandages themselves looked fresh and were neatly wrapped by a practised hand, likely changed just before his arrival.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sinking down onto one knee, his expression somewhere between despair and relief, he barely noticed as Vivienne placed herself just out of his line of sight, mentally preparing her report for the spymaster as requested.

“You mean besides the obvious?” She raised one elegant eyebrow at the Qunari, before letting herself glance down at the mutilated mage, her expression softening into one of pity. “We have had to keep him drugged, to keep the pain at bay, and to help with the healing process. He will be like this for a few days yet, I fear.”

“Oh.” Bull’s voice reflected neither happiness nor disappointment, mouth drawn into a tight-lipped neutrality, his single good eye wavering only slightly.

“This is going to be an exceedingly unpleasant time for him. I advise you make some space in your schedule; he is going to need you for quite some time to come if he is to make a full recovery.”

“How long?”

“Until he is fully recovered? The wounds should heal fully in a few months, perhaps faster. Beyond that, however, I truly cannot say. Perhaps a year, perhaps ten. Perhaps he will never move past what he has endured. All we can do now is wait, and hope.” She placed a gentle hand on the hulking Qunari’s shoulder, neither one of them looking away from the still form on the bed. “For what it is worth, I’m genuinely sorry. I’ll help the healers however I can, and physically he should make a near-full recovery. The fingers are gone, of course, but I’ve seen mages wield staves with worse injuries, though it will take some practice.”

“I get it.” Bull grunted, hunching over further. He felt anger, guilt, and a level of helplessness he hadn’t in a very long time. Not since childhood, in fact. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just talk to him, let him know you’re here. I’ll be back in a short while to keep him medicated. We need to keep him as still as possible until the worst of the injuries have healed. To reopen the wounds now could be fatal.”

“Thanks, Viv.” He didn’t notice the slight curl at the corners of the circle mage’s lips, or the fond look she shot him as she turned to leave the room. Nor did he notice that she did not bother to correct him, or berate him for not using her given title.

“You’re welcome.” The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the pair alone.

* * *

 

”You’re sure of this?” Leliana fixed the mage with her signature piercing stare, Vivienne some inches taller than she simply huffing indignantly in response.

“Of course, my dear. I never say anything I’m not entirely sure of.” Vivienne handed over the three-page report documenting Dorian’s condition, and theoretical information on his recovery and possible side effects.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Still, it seems extreme.” She leafed through the documents, scanning for important information that she could go back over when she had time alone later.

“As is the damage that has been done, and could be done yet still.”

“Very true. And if you’re wrong?” She looked up from the report in her hands, folding the papers and tucking them away for the moment.

“Then tranquility is still a solution.” The mage shrugged, her seeming lack of empathy in front of the spymaster making Leliana’s blood boil.

“Tranquility is not a solution.” The shorter redhead snapped, folding her arms across her chest and fuming slightly.

“Then you had best hope I’m right.” Vivienne turned on her heel, leaving Leliana glaring after her, before releasing a breath she did not know she was holding and going back over their short conversation, the reality of the situation they were in, and the encounter with the arrogant enchantress, giving her a splitting headache. She needed to find Josephine, and preferably something strong to drink. And people called _her_ heartless.


	9. First Dawn

Almost two weeks passed before the healers considered it ‘safe’ to stop drugging Dorian. In that time, his wounds had healed much, and were no longer life-threatening, though the internal healing had yet to even begin. He had mumbled to himself more often than not, Bull occasionally catching a word or two as he kept his constant vigil over the man, mostly in Tevene and never in a context that could be understood. Once, he was certain he had heard his own name uttered from those cracked lips, and the Qunari’s heart had burned for hours after, his own guilt slowly consuming him.

A soft groan sounded from the bed, and Bull was there in an instant, taking the barely-conscious mage’s hand and placing it atop his own, crouching by the bedside. He had seen enough victims of abuse in the past to know what to do and what not to do, and did not wish to trigger any kind of regressive response in the mage. Amber eyes, somewhat darker than usual, blinked open and stared up at the ceiling for a time, dark eyebrows knotted in concentration, almost as if Dorian was trying to piece himself back together, to work out where and who and what he was.

“Bull?” Dorian’s head fell to the side to stare up at him with near-pleading eyes, the Qunari trying his best reassuring smile, even as his stomach clenched at the sight. Slim fingers closed around his own, the mage taking a deep breath as he tried to sit up, wincing at his still-sore body.

“Hey now, you’re still hurt, you shouldn’t be moving around too much.” Despite his protests, Bull still moved to lift the man, helping him to sit up against the pillows and passing him a glass of water. Reaching out with both hands to take it, as a child might, the mage frowned at his almost entirely bandaged left hand, before letting it drop to the bed and allowing his companion to help him drink. The cool water felt like ice against his parched throat, and he finished the glass a little too quickly, having to then swallow down bile as his stomach protested.

“Where are we?” His voice was rough, through too many weeks of disuse, but it was still unmistakably Dorian. The silence had been unbearable, and Bull near enough breathed a sigh of relief when the man spoke, having missed the sound more than he dared to admit.

“We’re back in Skyhold, in one of the rooms in the medical wing.” The room had been intended for supplies initially, large enough for only one bed, a table and a couple of chairs. Dorian’s condition, however, had meant that keeping him in the main rooms was not an option, so the room had been cleared out, cleaned and set up as a private room within a matter of hours following his arrival.

“Oh.” The mage stared down at Bull’s sizeable hand, where it had returned to the bed once the glass was empty and placed on the night stand. Reaching out, almost hesitantly, he was surprised and yet not displeased when the hand reached back, holding his own so very gently.

“Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?” He asked, concerned, leaning forward slightly and ignoring the protest from his knee.

“No, this is fine.” Dorian’s head still felt as though it had been packed with the fluffiest of clouds, snippets of memories filtering through only occasionally, and even then it was like watching it happen to someone else. He knew something bad had happened, remembered some vague parts of it, but it felt so distant that he struggled to latch on to what he had.

“You haven’t eaten yet, maybe I could get you something? How about those pastries you like so much?” He asked hopefully, giving the hand holding his a very slight squeeze.

“Are you that eager to leave?” The mage snapped, fixing Bull with a hard glare.

“No!” Bull protested, a little too forcefully. “No, I just want you to be comfortable, that’s all.”

“I am comfortable.” He was sulking, he knew it, and couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I’m perfectly comfortable, and I don’t want-” Dorian cut himself off, glancing out the window so Bull wouldn’t notice the fragility of his expression. The Qunari knew, though. He didn’t need to see it to know. He could tell from Dorian’s voice, his unwillingness to voice what he felt; ‘I don’t want to be alone’. It was so simple, sounded so simple, and yet the proud mage could not bring himself to say it even in the face of the hardships that lay ahead, even with the cracks spreading.

“Then I won’t leave.” Bull chuckled, forced mirth but it was what Dorian needed right now. The mage gave his hand a squeeze back, the simple gesture starting off the pained clenching of his stomach once more. He was so weak, damaged, and yet still held himself upright and refused to crumble, though the Qunari suspected he might not last long if left to his own devices. No matter how strong the man, everyone had a breaking point, the Qunari people knew that better than most, and Dorian was almost at his.

“How bad is it? The wounds, I mean.” The words were quiet, not entirely fearful, and yet the terror bubbling just beneath the surface remained.

“I’m not a healer, Dorian. I don’t-”

“Oh stop with the bullshit.” The mage snapped, turning on him, eyes burning and nostrils flared in an expression that was so very Dorian. It was heartening to see that he had not yet lost himself. “You have eyes! Well, one of them at least. What can you see?”

Bull took a deep breath before starting, keeping his tone even. “Well, the bruising around your face is almost gone, the cuts are still there but they’re healing and shouldn’t scar. There are-” He swallowed, not looking away. “-parts of your chest and arms that will take some time to heal, and they will scar, but you should regain full use of your motor functions. Two of your fingers on your left hand couldn’t be saved, and the broken fingers have been strapped and shouldn’t take more than another three weeks, from what they’ve said.” He neglected to mention Dorian’s back, the hateful scarring that would remain from a serrated knife dragged too deep through flesh and the vile meaning behind it, or the damage that his insides had suffered from the prolonged assault, and while those had healed relatively quickly the scars remained.

“I want to see.” The mage struggled to shift the dead weight of his legs off the side of the bed, still extremely weak.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, wait until you’ve healed a bit more, then you can take a look.” The Qunari had stood with the man, all but holding him upright as Dorian glanced around the room in search of a mirror, finding none.

“No, I want to see.” Dorian repeated, firmly though not without a hint of hysteria. “I have to see what they’ve done, what I...what I’ll need to hide.” 

“You don’t have to hide anything. Scars are a mark of a warrior-”

“But I’m not a warrior, am I Bull?” The mage laughed bitterly, leaning against the Qunari for support. “I’m a mage, and you seem to forget; vanity is one of my better qualities.” The strong arms that held him upright wrapped around Dorian for a moment, in a gesture that he hadn’t expected and found he didn’t protest to. Bull held him so very gently, as though he might have been made of glass, ready to shatter at any moment. Tentatively, the mage allowed his own arms to lift and wrap loosely around what he could reach of the Qunari’s waist, careful of the still very painful left hand and its missing digits.

“You don’t have to do this, to always push yourself too hard.” Bull’s deep timbre rumbled from somewhere above his head, and Dorian could feel the deep, rhythmic thud of the warrior’s heart from where his head was pressed against the firm mass of Bull’s chest.

“You don’t understand.” Dorian protested, breath catching in a half-sob as he began to shake slightly, and that was all it took. Everything seemed to burn, a pain that could be lessened by no known cure save time burning in his chest and behind his eyes. The façade he had so carefully built around himself finally came crashing down, the mage seeming to crumble visibly, like a crushed butterfly wing. Bull could feel the trembling, hot tears splashing against the bare skin of his chest and stomach, and when he tried to pull back slightly Dorian refused to let go. He held onto the Qunari like a lifeline, which he may well have been at that point, silent tears shifting into quiet sobs and then pained cries as the magnitude of what had happened finally hit the mage.

“I do understand, Dorian.” The one-eyed warrior mumbled into his friend’s hair as he gently lowered them both to the floor, frowning slightly as Dorian all but curled into his lap. It would have been cute at any other time, but with the broken man’s sobs echoing around the small room and likely out into the hallway all Bull felt was pain and regret. He blamed himself for not moving quicker, for not leaving camp earlier, and for letting Dorian wander off on his own in the first place. He knew he could have prevented this, and that had been eating him up inside ever since they had returned to Skyhold. The guilt was near-tangible; Krem had noticed it, in the few hours they had spent together since, and the Lieutenant understood.

“I can’t-” Bull hushed the mage, pulling him closer and rubbing gentle circles on his back while he murmured nonsensical words he hoped were perceived as soothing, careful not to agitate the near-healed cuts there. Dorian was content to be hushed, for the first time in his life words not coming to him. After what seemed like hours, and may well have been, the heart-rending sobs quietened and then ceased altogether. Lifting the slumbering mage ever so carefully, knees protesting from having sat in such an uncomfortable position for so long, Bull placed his charge atop the bed and made to retrieve a wash cloth to clean the tear-tracks from his cheeks. Upon letting go, though, Dorian even in his sleep let loose a terrified wail, reaching out and leaving the Qunari no choice but to return to his side, holding him as one would a frightened child.

They spent the remainder of the day like that, Bull half-stretched across the far too small bed, holding the mage to him. Dreams came, on occasion, Dorian twitching and moaning slightly as he slept, and each time Bull would hold him that little bit closer until the nightmare passed. Medics came and went, checking on Dorian, seemingly unsurprised by Bull’s presence on the bed and one even going so far as to bring the Qunari a bread roll and some broth to ease his grumbling stomach. By the time the mage finally awoke, it was sunset.


	10. Baby Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have NO idea how difficult I am finding this! Not because of the story itself, but because it keeps trying to warp into Cullrian, and I have to continually remind myself that no, this is an adoribull story!
> 
> Damnit, Cullen!

”I can’t do this.” Dorian stopped in his tracks, the arm that had been gently tugging him towards the door going slack as Bull realised he wasn’t going to follow of his own accord. Turning, the abject fear on the mage’s face was like a knife to the gut, the hulking Qunari returning to the man’s side in less than a second.

“Sure you can.” Bull’s hand moved from Dorian’s own to the small of his back, not quite pushing, but enough to encourage him to take another, albeit small, step towards the door. “You’re Dorian Pavus; biggest, baddest mage in all of Thedas. Well, if you listen to Varric, anyway.”

“No, I’m Dorian Pavus, about to wet my pants at the thought of leaving my room.” The mage laughed dryly, though there was little humour in it. “I truly have sunk to a level of pathetic I had never dreamed imaginable.”

Bull snorted and ruffled the man’s hair, much as he did to Krem to wind him up, the fond gesture almost second nature by now. “You’re many things, but ‘pathetic’ isn’t one of them.” He laughed quietly as the irritated mage tried to fix his hair in the mirror, sighing when he realised that at least some of the damage was irrevocable. He took the time to glance over himself; dressed rather more conservatively than he ever would have in the past, for more reasons than simply hiding the scars, Dorian still cut a fine figure. His hair was impeccably coiffed and moustache trimmed and shaped in his usual style, having spent a little too much time preening in the mirror that morning, making it past lunch by the time he was ready to leave. Bull didn’t mind, of course, knowing that the act of making himself presentable held more importance than simple vanity for the damaged mage.

They had been relocated, somewhat forcefully, to Dorian’s quarters once he was well enough to walk around the room unaided. They needed the space for wounded soldiers, and Dorian had spend enough time in the small, poorly lit room in Bull’s opinion, though the actual act of moving him had been somewhat tricky. Weeks had passed since his incarceration, weeks in which he had not shaved, had not cut or styled his hair, nor had access to a mirror to so much as look at himself. They had waited until nightfall, to limit the number of people who might see the mage, at Dorian’s behest of course. He had even wrapped himself up in one of the bedsheets, hiding from the world and from the accusing eyes he knew would stare unblinkingly at him as he passed.

“So a walk around the battlements and then we can come back, yes?” The mage finally asked, back straight and stiff, too much so, fear evident in his eyes though he had schooled his expression back to neutrality.

“Yeah, just half an hour to get some fresh air, and then back to bed with you.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s be on our way then.” Stepping forward with purpose, Dorian placed on hand on the door handle and stopped dead, quivering slightly where he stood. He could hear the chatter of people through the part-open window, and the thud of something heavy gave away at least one presence on the other side of the door. His heart hammered loudly in his chest, threatening to break through his ribcage, and he suddenly found his mouth dry as the Hissing Wastes, making swallowing impossible.

A large and gentle hand found its way to the small of his back once more, as it always seemed to whenever he needed any kind of reassurance. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” The voice was low and calming, the large mass to his side reassuring in its solidity. Dorian allowed himself to lean back slightly, taking what small comfort he could from his companion. Bull never questioned it, never teased him for the weakness he himself loathed, remaining as a steadfast rock for the mage to lean on.

“No, I need to do this. I can’t remain shut within these four walls forever, just...” He worried at his bottom lip, hand tightening on the handle from where it had never moved.

“I’ll be right beside you the whole time, and we can head back if it gets too much.” The fear in the room was palpable, but then so was Dorian’s determination, and as the door creaked open the mage took several calming breaths and stepped forward into the unknown.

For the most part, they were avoided by those they passed as they strolled around the battlements. One of the women from the infirmary smiled and waved at Dorian as she hurried past, and he was able to manage a small twitch of his lips and a half-hearted waggle of fingers in response. She seemed pleased enough at that and was on her way without speaking, though Dorian found his heart pounding in his chest simply from that.

“How you doing? Is this still okay?” Bull murmured from above his head, on a constant look out of anything that might cause them problems. They needed to avoid anyone who might wish to speak at length with either he or the mage, Dorian being too close to a full-blown panic attack at being seen in public for them to risk that level of interaction.

“I’m okay, this is fine, I suppose I need the exercise anyway.” Truthfully, he was far from fine, and Bull knew it, but he was trying and that was important for the healing process.

“We’ll need to go through the Commander’s office, it’s bound to be less busy than going down into the courtyard and back up.” Bull stated conversationally, though they were both aware that he was actually asking whether Dorian could face seeing Cullen, who would inevitably detain them for a while.

“I don’t know, he’s fairly popular now, we might face a gaggle of fawning girls going that way.” Dorian joked, and while he was no less afraid, he had at least managed to relax a little. He found himself pushing forward, the thought of being confined in the safety of Cullen’s office quickening his steps. Even with the Commander present, it was still preferable to the open expanse of the battlements.

“In which case Cullen would probably welcome the interruption.” Bull replied, his own laugh louder and more obnoxious than Dorian’s and very much appreciated. He followed just a step behind the mage, his one good eye flicking from the tense form of the man, then over their surroundings, and back to Dorian again. They reached Cullen’s office without issue, Dorian knocking quietly on the closed door before stepping into the dim room, book-lined walls and overly large desk reminding him somewhat distantly of his little alcove in the library.

“Dorian!” The blonde had glanced up as they entered, practically buried under a mountain of paperwork, standing in surprise as the mage afforded him a half-smile. “Maker, it’s good to see you my friend.” He made to step towards the pair, not certain if he should envelop Dorian in a tight hug, clap him on the back or leave him well alone. Undecided as he was, finally Cullen decided on the latter, moving around the desk but not touching the man.

“Yes, well, it was getting a trifle boring cooped up in that room all day with nothing but this big ox for company.” It was a lie, but lies came so easily, far easier than explaining to one who might not understand about how even the passageway outside his door terrified him, or of how the open courtyard held unseen nightmares. No, it was easier to keep that hidden, keep _himself_ hidden.

“I can imagine.” Cullen smiled fondly at the mage, the Dorian standing before him seeming too much like his usual self for the Commander to feel overly concerned. “I’ve missed our chess games, does this mean I’ll have a chance to redeem myself?”

“Ah, I had almost forgotten about our last match, thank you ever so much for the reminder.” The mage laughed, most of the tension draining from him as the safety of familiarity wrapped itself around his spirit. “It was quite a spectacular loss on your part, wasn’t it?”

“In my defence, I was somewhat distracted at the time.”

“What, by my charm and wit? Commander, you flatter me.” Dorian fluttered his eyelashes mockingly, and Cullen simply rolled his eyes.

“By the exceedingly large quantity of Orlesian privy seats which had arrived that morning, and that Josephine instructed me to find homes for.”

“Why in Andraste’s name would anyone send us _privy_ seats, of all things?”

“Maker only knows! Some low-level aristocrat or something. You should have seen this room, it was full of the things!” 

The casual banter went on for some time, Cullen migrating back to his chair, work all but forgotten for a time, while Dorian had moved around to the back of the desk, half-perched against the wooden top with his arms crossed over his chest, the only real sign of defence in an otherwise relaxed demeanour. Bull remained where he was, singular sentry at the main entrance to Cullen’s office, joining in the conversation only when prompted and far more interested in Dorian’s manner around the Commander than any of their frankly quite inane discussion. As minutes ticked past, turning swiftly into one hour and then two, the Qunari relaxed somewhat, Dorian’s movements become more animated as he spoke, gesturing with his arms as he was often wont to do, at least before the incident, though still mindful of his butchered left hand.

The incident. Dorian closed himself off whenever it was mentioned and refused to speak of it, refusing to allow Bull to see him in any level of undress. Once the bandages had been removed, he had been all but ordering the Qunari from the room each morning as he stripped off the full-cover sleepwear he had requested, and again at night when he changed back into it. He glossed over it, throwing the occasional jibe or teasing remark, insinuating that Bull’s intentions were less than pure and knowing fully that they were not. Their conversation always remained light, if slightly strained, and during the day the mage would often complain about the ‘over-sized mother hen’ than Bull had seemingly become, though by nightfall he would refuse to so much as climb into bed without the warrior doing so first, curling against the expanse of muscled chest as a frightened child, Dorian’s nightmares both horrifying and frequent, occurring almost every night, sometimes two or three times a night, and Bull found he got very little sleep any more.

They agreed to return the next afternoon - well, Dorian agreed for them, Bull huffing slightly but remaining otherwise silent. As they left, the sun hanging low on the horizon, it felt as though perhaps something very small had changed, and Dorian’s entirely more casual demeanour as they made the short walk back spoke volumes to the ex-Ben-Hassrath, of the tiniest spark of happiness the first signs of healing. It was time, he decided. Tomorrow, they would talk.


	11. Rumours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilty ships ahoy! I'm sorry, I just love Krem too much, please forgive me!

No one was sure how the rumours had started, or who had started them. Nor were they certain quite how they started to spiral out of control. All they knew was that even Varric had been unable to quell the tales flitting about Skyhold, and that they could not under any circumstances allow Dorian to overhear any of them. Bull had been on his way back to their room with lunch for the pair of them - because it was their room, really, if only due to his continued presence there - when he had heard the latest vile twist on the tale.

“Do you really think he was kidnapped?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Because I heard he’d been whoring himself out to the Templars for months.”

Bull broke both of the man’s arms. No one gave him a grilling for it, either, and he later heard that Cass had also paid the ignorant recruit a visit. He almost dreaded to think what state the mage-hating man would have been in after that.

The next day was almost as bad. On the morning breakfast run he had bumped into Sera, who kept him for a quick if rather strange chat. She was concerned about Dorian, that much was clear, though seemed equally as concerned with a new ‘plan’ she had concocted, which involved something about a catapult and flying Qunari.

“...don’t know why the Inquisitor puts up with having a traitor around.”

“Maybe he’s got everyone spellbound or something?”

“Fucking traitorous Tevinter bastard. Someone needs to do something.”

The Qunari and the elf both grew silent, their conversation dying, sharing the same murderous expression. Bull made to go for the soldiers, but a small hand upon his chest stopped him. “Leave it to me, I got this.” She hurried him along, then, back to Dorian who needed his presence more than he needed his honour restoring. The men’s screams echoed around the courtyard for several hours; she had strung them up by their underpants in place of the flag of the Inquisition, an arrow buried in one of each of their respective shoulders, a bed sheet with ‘traitors’ painted across it hung between them. They were, eventually, brought back down to the ground on Cullen’s - albeit begrudging - orders, so as to not distress a party of approaching dignitaries.

The third time was almost a week later, and it was Cullen rather than Sera who had joined him on that occasion. The Commander had been on his way to see Dorian, chess set in hand, as Bull had been heading back from a quick meet-up with the Chargers, who had barely seen their captain since the incident. They walked back together, chatting amicably about whatever came to mind, and had reached the turn to get to Dorian’s room when they stumbled across a soldier, tin of paint in hand, defacing the wooden door. He was not aware of their approach until the last possible moment, turning and staring with abject terror into the faces of the two furious warriors. His stammered rationalisations went unheard, as Cullen simply cut him down before Bull could so much as move.

Rumours spread quickly after that one, clearly Varric’s doing, about the man’s involvement with the Venetori and also something about him poisoning the water supply. It was entirely untrue, but it was the least the dwarf could do to vindicate Cullen’s actions. The rumours about Dorian quelled for a time, if only because people now had something new to gossip about. The graffiti was removed before anyone else had a chance to see it, and the commotion from outside ensured that Dorian maintained no desire to leave his sanctuary for the duration of the clean-up effort.

The animosity toward the mage was concerning for all involved, the Inquisitor herself stomping around the castle in an utterly foul mood more often than not, trying to find the source of the rumours and reassure any concerned parties that, no, Dorian wasn’t a risk to the security of the Inquisition, and that they should treat him no differently than their own. Some appeared relieved at that, while others seemed unconvinced. His continued absence was not helping matters either, though it could not be avoided. Neither could he accompany her whenever she had to leave Skyhold, a strict ban having been placed on his using magic by Vivienne which was approved by Leliana, though neither woman would speak of why.

“You’re looking lovely as ever today, Inquisitor.” The scowl melted from her face as Krem approached, twisting into a small smile for the man as he strolled easily over to her.

“It’s good to see you, Krem. How are you and the rest of the Chargers doing?” She asked politely, dipping her head in acknowledgement of his arrival.

“Me an’ the boys are just fine. Chief’s busy as always, but you know that. Was wonderin’ if you wanted to join us for a few drinks tonight, actually. You look like you could use a friend.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to everyone here. You’ve been crashing around like a bear with a sore head for weeks, need to relax before you do yourself a mischief, or scare off any more Orlesian nobles.”

“I’ve been that bad?” She winced as Krem nodded, looking somewhat ashamed. “I’m just not sure what to do. Dorian doesn’t seem to be getting any better, the rumours are getting worse, and it’s all _my_ fault.” Her bottom lip began to tremble slightly as she spoke, the warrior before her looking somewhat panicked.

“Hey, now, I was there, remember? I _know_ it wasn’t your fault, was nobodies fault what happened that day.” He reached forward and gently took hold of her upper arms, giving them a slight squeeze. “The chief says he’s doing better each day, he’s even started playing chess again.”

“He has?” She sniffled slightly, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand in frustration. They were in the middle of the courtyard, for Maker’s sake, and here she was crying like a baby.

“You didn’t know?” Krem asked in slight confusion. Lavellan shook her head and he sighed softly. “When was the last time you went to see him?”

“Not since before he woke up.” She finally admitted, a look of shame crossing her features as she glanced away.

“Right, we need to fix that, then.” He took her hand, then, and without thinking the Inquisitor laced their fingers together, allowing the lightly-flushed Krem to lead the way, following obediently.

“I’m not sure he’ll want to see me.” Her voice was so small and uncertain, he wondered for a moment whether she was indeed the same bold, brash and overly confident Inquisitor he had come to know.

“Of course he will, you daft sot.” The man laughed, slowing his pace slightly so as to not rush the woman, their arms gaining more slack between them as they drew closer, hands still joined.

“I’m glad you’re coming with me, Krem. Thank you.” She gave his hand a small squeeze, not noticing the way his ears turned a fetching shade of pink, or the slight stutter to his step.

They reached Dorian’s quarters just before the lunch bell, and only loosed their hold on one another so Lavellan could knock quietly on the door, unsurprised when it was Bull who answered and not Dorian. He let them in with a curt greeting, apparently somewhat surprised to see her, though less surprised at Krem’s appearance. Stepping inside, she took one look at Dorian and, before anyone could stop her, all but flung herself at him, wrapping slender arms around his chest and squeezing, hard. The force of it had the mage stepping back to steady himself, surprised at the intensity of her greeting. Bull was already reacting, moving to pull the Inquisitor back lest she trigger some sort of episode, when Dorian’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. The room fell silent, save Lavellan’s tearful apologies, muffled by the fabric she had buried her face into.

“Hush, now.” He spent some time simply standing there, stroking her hair lightly, as if it was the most natural thing imaginable to have the most powerful woman in all of Thedas crying upon your shoulder. Finally, once she quietened, he took hold of her shoulders and stood back slightly so he could stare into her face.

“I’m so very sorry.” She hiccuped quietly, face wet and eyes ringed in red.

“You have no reason to be, this was not of your doing, nothing anyone could have done would have prevented this.” His eyes flicked to Bull for a moment, the words meant for more than just the miserable-looking elf. “And look, I’m almost all better, we’ll be back out hunting for Coryphius in no time at all.” He spoke to her as one might to a frightened child, and as strange as it was, it did seem to work.

“Will you be well enough to come down for dinner tonight?” She asked, almost hopefully, and for a moment the mage looked downright frightened at the prospect. He quickly schooled his expression, smiling softly.

“Perhaps, though it may not be this evening, but-”

“We can eat in the small dining room off the kitchens, no one will bother us there, I’ll make sure of it. It can be just the four of us, if you’d like?” She looked so hopeful, it almost hurt to watch, desperately trying to claw back any little bit of normality.

“Alright, if it means so much to you.” He kissed her forehead softly, something his nanny used to do for him as a child when he was upset, and it seemed almost second nature to do so now. “There’s no reason why the Commander can’t join us either, if you can remove him from his desk for long enough.” The beaming smile he received in response made the fear in the pit of his stomach almost worth it.

“Come on, boss, let him get some rest.” Bull chuckled, looking decidedly less concerned than he had when she first arrived, and Lavellan allowed Krem to pry her from the mage. She nodded, smiling happily as she waved farewell before being dragged from the room. Once the door shut behind them, Dorian collapsed bonelessly on the bed, eyes closed, feeling the mattress dip as Bull sat himself down beside the mage.

“Do you think she knows?” He finally asked, fumbling blindly to his right to see if he could find Bull’s hand, giving up when he realised it was out of reach.

Bull paused, not entirely certain what he meant. Did he mean the other side of the torture, the internal battle Dorian constantly fought against his own mind, or something altogether different? “Knows about what?” The Qunari finally asked, shifting so he could lean back against the sheets, taking Dorian’s hand gently in his own.

“About Krem.” The mage replied, opening his eyes for the sole purpose of rolling them at his companion, as though it was obvious.

“What about Krem?” Bull asked in slight confusion, not expecting the topic of conversation to switch to something so different from his train of thought.

“You mean you really don’t know? And I thought you were supposed to be Ben-Hassrath.”

“I _was_ Ben-Hassrath, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The Qunari growled, the sound enough to bring a sparkle to the mage’s eyes that had been rather lacking of late.

“He loves her.” Dorian laughed, looking more relaxed than he had in a long time. “He can barely take his eyes off her. That’s the look of a man in love if ever I saw one.”

“With the _Inquisitor_?” Bull looked surprised for a moment, wondering how he could have possibly missed it, then remembering his rather prolonged absence from the Chargers. “It makes sense, I guess. So you’re okay with this dinner thing tonight?”

“I suppose so. I can’t pretend I’m not nervous, but it’s something I’ll have to do eventually, and at least this way I know I’m among friends.”

“You’re always among friends, kadan.” Bull replied, the endearment slipping out before he had chance to stop it, his heart skipping a beat as Dorian’s eyebrows knotted together in slight confusion. 

The Qunari might have looked nervous, if not for his perfectly schooled expression, and it did not appear that the mage had any idea of the internal conflict going on inside that massive skull. They had grown closer, yes, and much of their behaviour together could easily translate to something more; the hand holding, the cuddling in bed, the way that Bull fawned and fussed over Dorian, and though the man would complain he secretly loved it. It didn’t, however, change what they had - it was a friendship, that was all, and one of necessity. There were the stirrings of feelings there, on Bull’s part at least, but they were decidedly one-sided and he had vowed not to betray the level of trust Dorian had placed in him, no matter how his mind and body wished him to. What they had would remain platonic.

“What did you call me?” The mage asked curiously, almost innocently.

“I’ll tell you when you’re well enough to join the Inquisitor outside the castle walls.” He stated firmly, leaving no room for discussion.

“But I’ve no idea when that might be.” Dorian whined, pouting slightly at the now-chuckling Qunari hovering some way above his head.

“Then you will have something to work towards, won’t you?” He hoped that the mage might forget his slip up come that time, though knew that it was unlikely considering the man’s continual search for knowledge. There were no books within Skyhold which could offer him a translation, Bull was certain, and he could easily lie to the man to sate his curiosity, but that would not be fair. No, he would never be able to lie to Dorian, not like that.


	12. Knife Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, long hiatus! Sorry guys! Still, hopefully it was worth the wait - I've had the mirror scene planned for a while now, the rest...well, it sorta did its own thing! I'm trying to convey how Dorian is feeling, and I'm hoping I managed it :/

When Dorian had shooed him out the door that morning, he had almost seemed back to his old self, even cracking a small joke as the Qunari was ushered out of the bedroom. Bull had happened to mention, in passing, that he hadn’t really had time to speak with Krem or the rest of the Chargers recently, and while he did not explicitly state that Dorian was the reason behind that, the mage was smart enough to figure it out on his own. So, that next morning, he found himself on his way to the tavern for the first time in weeks.

Krem was already there, did that boy ever sleep? The others were likely still out cold, considering they had little to be awake for and it was still before lunch time. He sat and chatted amicably with Krem for a time, there being little to actually catch up on but it being rather pleasant sitting with his second in command and just talking. The others filtered in after a while, one after the other, in varying states of wakefulness. It wasn’t that they spent their days drinking, far from it; the tavern was one of the few places in Skyhold where they could be as rowdy as they wanted and not get asked to leave, and the barkeep seemed to like them, so it worked out well.

It had grown dark outside before Bull really noticed, time passing far faster than he would have liked, and it was with a certain amount of regret that he got up to leave, heading back to Dorian’s room with one last goodbye to his men. The walk back was short enough, and he was buzzing pleasantly from the ale he had consumed, smiling to himself and in better spirits than he had been for a long time. While he still wouldn’t discuss what had happened, Dorian was improving, and that made the brutish Qunari more than a little happy considering at one point he had thought about putting the mage on a constant suicide watch. Dorian had even started using his magic again, though always supervised by Vivienne, for ‘his own safety’ she would profess. She would not elaborate, and it irritated Dorian to no end, but he was playing by the rules for the moment at least.

The bedroom was silent when he finally reached it, pushing open the door with a low squeak, knowing his companion would not have bolted it. The sight that met his eyes, though, filled the Qunari with dread. Dorian was sat sideways on the chair that accompanied the dressing table, wearing nothing but his sleeping pants, back facing the large mirror on the wall while he held a hand mirror. Bull could see the red puffiness of the mage’s eyes, even in the low candle light, and his dishevelled hair and unkempt moustache made the warrior wonder just how long he had been sitting there for. He had not dressed that morning, that much was certain. He seemed frozen in place, staring at the reflection in the mirror, stark red, raised scarring staring right back at him. Jagged letters, carved by a brutal hand, spelling out ‘WHORE’ in a line down the olive skin of the mage’s back, from shoulder to hip.

“Dorian?” Bull tried softly, receiving no response from the man. He closed the door behind him with a click and bolted it, before stepping carefully over to the mage. With gentle fingers, he carefully plucked the mirror from Dorian’s hands, placing it down on the dressing table, finally gaining the other man’s attention.

“You didn’t tell me.” He husked, throat raw from crying and likely dehydration. “That’s why you wouldn’t let me look.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to stand it, I couldn’t let you see what they had done.” The Qunari replied softly, kneeling before the trembling man, knowing how easy it would be to make one wrong move and cause further damage and distress.

“You were right, I can’t stand it.” Dorian was outright shaking now, mouth twisting into something unpleasant, before he buried his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly. It took only a little coaxing on Bull’s part for the mage to lean against his shoulder, soon turning his face up into the warrior’s thick neck, hands scrabbling to hold onto whatever they could find, looking for purchase, as Dorian slowly lost himself.

“I’m here for you, Kadan. I’ll always be here, so cry and scream all you need, for as long as you need. I’ll hold you for as long as you want me to, no matter what.” He wanted nothing more than to hold the mage, to rub soothing circles on his back, but years of training had taught him not to draw attention to the source of Dorian’s anguish. Instead, he simply wrapped his arms around the mage and held him, murmuring anything and everything in his ear, needing to keep talking.

After a while, Dorian’s cries ceased, and he grew still in the warrior’s embrace, arms wrapped loosely around Bull’s neck and head firmly hidden in the juncture between neck and shoulder. Wet intakes of breath could be heard over the low murmur of Bull’s voice, shuddering and uneven. He was utterly lost, broken after having survived so much, any improvement long gone. Pulling back, he could not look at the Qunari, though he was also unable to let the warrior go, hands now resting upon Bull’s shoulders to try to keep himself grounded.

“Tell me that you love me.” It came from nowhere, the request. It made no sense, even to Dorian, and as his lips moved it was almost as though someone else was controlling them. He felt no regret though, no shame at being so forward, only this deep pit of blackness that had opened in his gut.

“I think you already know that I do.” Bull replied calmly, remaining still, waiting to see what might happen next and preparing himself for what was to come. It was a dangerous game Dorian was playing, and he had to be careful not to allow the mage to become entirely dependent on him, as he had seen happen before.

“I have no idea what you feel.” Dorian laughed bitterly, eyes and nose stinging, and when he looked up to meet Bull’s gaze he was hollow inside.

“Then I will tell you.” With some difficulty, Bull scooped the mage up from the chair, holding him close as he stepped over to sit on the edge of the bed, and even then refusing to let go. “I love you, Kadan. You are the light that I did not know was missing from my life. You give me strength, hope, and the will to carry on. And it kills me every time I see you frown, knowing that I could not stop those monsters, that my own weakness is in part to blame for the pain you’re suffering now.” Dorian was staring up at him, wide eyed, and when Bull pressed a kiss to his temple he whimpered softly.

“You keep calling me Kadan.” He swallowed, bile building in the back of his throat. “I’m not going to be leaving Skyhold any time soon, if ever, please,” He felt nauseous, head spinning. “Please, just tell me what it means.”

“It means ‘my heart’.” Bull replied softly, and Dorian surged upwards, meshing their mouths together in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and very little feeling. The Qunari remained still, not kissing back but not resisting either, waiting for the mage to grow calm.

“Such sweet words, and you meant none of them, did you?” The mage all but howled as he tore himself away, glaring furiously up at Bull who was still holding him in place. He writhed and spat, wanting to be free, needing to hit something or to hurt himself, something to turn the internal agony he felt outwards. Bull could feel the initial tingles of a lightning spell gathering in Dorian’s palms, still pressed against the Qunari’s biceps as he struggled to loosen Bull’s grip.

“I meant every last word.” Holding Dorian still, Bull waited for the man to stop squirming, before releasing one of the mage’s arms and reaching up to gently cup his face, large thumb stroking his cheek. “But you’re suffering right now, and I’m not about to take advantage of that.”

“And what about what I want?” Dorian wailed, calmer than he had been, yet still wild-eyed, a shocking sight for any not prepared to see it, considering the usual calm and collected nature of the man.

“To forget.” The mage sobbed, growing placid and limp. “I don’t want to feel this any more, any of it. The pain is indescribable, it’s almost as though I’m being consumed from the inside out. I cannot handle this...this _weakness!_ ” The last word he spat out, as though it physically repulsed him, tensing as he was bundled gently onto the comforter, half expecting his companion to leave. When Bull sat him against the pillows and passed him a glass of water, he was torn between drinking it or throwing it at the warrior. He decided on the former, downing the cool liquid so quickly that he near enough choked.

“Then I’ll help you to forget, however you need.” He took the glass from the mage, sitting on the floor beside the bed, leaning on the mattress with one massive forearm. “But we do this slowly, or we don’t do it at all.”

Dorian did not agree to it, but Bull hadn’t expected him to. The exhausted mage soon dropped into a dreamless sleep, the fade escaping him that night, gripping Bull’s hand in his own. The Qunari remained in his silent vigil, seated upon the hard floor, his bad knee aching from the cold stone pressed against it as he watched over his charge until long after sun-up.


End file.
